


In Excelsis Deo

by HollyDB



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Drama & Romance, F/M, Holidays, Reunions, Romance, Shanshu Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyDB/pseuds/HollyDB
Summary: Save the world, earn a prize. Of course, nothing is that easy.Originally published in 2004; edited in 2020
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	1. A Thrill of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in an alternate AtS Season 5. The story is 16 years old this year and has been edited to improve readability.

Truthfully, Wesley hadn’t known what to expect when he received the call, but it definitely hadn’t been this. The assignment itself was supposed to be an excuse to get out of the office. Something Angel had staffed out. He knew on some level that he should resent it, but all things considered, he appreciated the opportunity to escape the walls of that place.  
  
In the few months since they had assumed control of the law firm that had previously been out to wipe them off the map, the rift between the former team at Angel Investigations had become rather severe. The damage the previous year had wrought wasn’t the sort that could be repaired easily, and certainly not with them shuffled off to their respective departments. This seemed, quite frankly, to be Wolfram and Hart’s intention, a point Wesley had attempted to make to Angel on numerous occasions, but the conversations never went anywhere, and eventually, there hadn’t seemed a point to continuing pursuing the conversation. Since then, Wesley had surrendered to his situation—that it had been his choice as much as everyone else’s. The entire affair reminded him of the tale of the man who was granted a choice between Heaven and Hell and ended up selecting the underworld because they had the better sales pitch.

Every day was poison. Poison that he had brewed himself.  
  
It made days like this, days when he had an errand that took him away from the office, a blessing. Wesley didn’t have too much in the way of details, just that a man had stumbled into a local pub—one owned by Wolfram and Hart clients—wrestled away a knife from the bartender and was threatening to split his own wrists unless someone could prove that he was real. It was likely nothing but _likely_ was not a gamble Wolfram and Hart, or its clients, wanted to take.

Wesley assumed it was a random crazy. Lord knew this town was full of them. Only a matter of time before one wandered into a property owned by one of the many amoral demon clans represented by Wolfram and Hart.

The scene that greeted him when he stepped inside the pub, though, was one he hadn’t expected.

A man stood amid a sea of turned over tables and stools, screaming his throat raw as he sliced thin rivers of red into his arm with the knife wielded in his left hand. He was naked from the waist up and barefoot, the pants he wore torn and dirty, like he’d pulled them out of a dumpster, which he likely had

“Is that what this is, then?” he roared, voice choked with tears, though not so much that Wesley missed the accent. “This is blood. Real blood. Am I real? Am I _real?_ The dead don’t bleed, you know.” The man dragged the blade down his arm again, not flinching. “Some dead do, but my kinda dead don’t. I’m bloody well finished here. Bloody beyond dust. No more blood for me.” He turned his face heavenward. “Wasn’t I finished?! Wasn’t I? Am I real? Am I—”  
  
The knife went to the floor, forgotten, as the man howled and clutched at his own chest. Wesley started forward then, though he didn’t get very far. A warning look from the bartender conveyed that someone had tried this before and born no success. Indeed, the man seemed to realize he’d dropped his weapon almost at once, and pitched over to collect it from where it had fallen.

“No bloody heartbeat,” the man muttered, slapping his chest with his free hand, leaving a red handprint behind. “Not supposed to have one of those. Not supposed to—”  
  
Wesley caught the glimmer of the blade as the stranger lifted it to his own chest, and he knew what would happen if he didn’t move. The blade would disappear between the man’s lungs and he’d go to his knees, coughing up blood and gasping for air as the lights went out. Might be a kinder fate for him, but Wesley was not so lost that he would stand idly by as someone ended their life. Once he decided that, the rest was instinct. Over and done with before he even registered he’d moved. One second he was standing quite still near the door, and the next he’d tackled the poor soul to the floor. Kicking the knife away was the first priority, which he managed in the confused shuffle that followed.

But something solidified in Wesley’s head then—a piece of knowledge that had burst forward the second he’d stepped inside the pub, and there was no doubt.  
  
He had never met the man he was wrestling, only knew him by reputation. By photos in old books and the stories of Angel’s less-than-glamorous past that he’d managed to collect over the years. And a few months ago, this man had been _all_ Wesley had heard about for days, for he was the reason that Sunnydale had vanished.  
  
Oh yes. He had heard more than his fair share about Spike. About the vampire he had been, the remarkable journey he’d taken, and the sacrifice he’d made at the end of his life that had saved the world. There had been one more vampire with a soul—better than that, a _won_ soul, not one cursed upon him. A soul won for and out of love.  
  
That was when things began to fall apart for Wesley. Indeed, for all of them. That was the reason Angel had become so disillusioned with himself and own purpose in this world. And the former Watcher, not to be outdone, had spent a good week or so researching the Shanshu prophecy all over again. Wondering, waiting. A part of him had known his friend was out of the running, now. A vampire that sought a soul, chose one, likely didn’t need one in the first place. But how was he to know, without the chance to investigate it further? Such had never occurred. Such was bloody unheard of.  
  
He had thought when it was evident that Spike’s demise was final that Angel might remember who he was and what he was working for. What his mission was and what it had been from the beginning. But no. They were as they ever were. Working for a cause that no longer made sense, separated, divided, and apparently content to stay that way. It was easier, after all. That it was also lining their pockets was a tidy little coincidence.  
  
Wesley didn’t know how he gained the upper hand, though wagered being aware of his surroundings was a good place to start. He had Spike pinned to the ground after just a few minutes of struggle and was staring into blue, damn near feral eyes.

“Spike!” he shouted, wrapping his hands around the blond’s wrists. “Spike. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The man stopped struggling at that, blinking once at the sound of his name.

Wesley released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and offered a forced smile. “It’s okay. You’ve been gone for a few months now. My name is Wesley. I’m a…friend.”  
  
A few seconds passed, filled with heavy breaths and searching looks. Then, as insolent as a three-year-old, Spike lifted his hands. “I’m bleedin’.”  
  
“Yes,” Wesley agreed. “You cut yourself. Just a few minutes ago.”  
  
“I cut myself.”  
  
“You shouldn’t do that.” He drew in a breath and glanced at the half-stunned crowd that had gathered. He wanted to tell them to move back and allow them room, but was uncertain of how the wounded former vampire would react if he addressed anyone else. “Spike, do you remember Sunnydale?”  
  
Another pregnant pause. Then a spark. Something. A name.  
  
“Buffy.” Spike gasped, sitting up with such force that he knocked Wesley off balance. “Buffy. Where’s Buffy? What happened to Buffy?”  
  
Wesley fought to his feet. “Spike, Buffy—”  
  
“Where is she? What did you do to her?” Spike’s eyes flared and he scrunched his face as though trying to burst into his demon face, but nothing happened. A moment later, he rumbled a hard sob and collapsed against the nearest barstool in defeat. “Buffy. I need Buffy. Where is she?”  
  
Wesley drew in a deep breath and slowly raised his hand, edging forward. “Spike,” he said again. “Spike, listen to me. I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I used to be Buffy’s Watcher. I now work in Los Angeles with…” He frowned, considering. Given their history, Spike might not react well to Angel’s name. Though the presence of a grandsire might be comforting… Bloody hell, he didn’t know what to do. He was lost, left to instinct. “I work with friends,” he concluded. “Buffy is in Italy. She’s been there since Sunnydale fell.”  
  
Spike held up a hand painted in red. “Blood,” he said.  
  
“Yes, that’s blood.”  
  
“Used to drink. Don’t like the taste now.”  
  
A low murmur ran through their audience.  
  
“It won’t anymore,” Wesley replied, ignoring the others as best he could. “Spike, you…you’re human.”  
  
Spike responded by blinking some more, then placed the hand over his heart again. “Hurts.”  
  
“It’s beating for the first time in over a hundred years.”  
  
“Vampires don’t _have_ heartbeats.”  
  
Wesley licked his lips. “You’re not a vampire anymore.” He caught sight of the bartender behind the blond, the fear and reservation that had been on his face long gone now and a small revolver was in his left hand. Oh, perfect. That was all the situation needed—bullets. Wesley swallowed back the urge to yell at the idiot, returning his attention to the former vampire. “Spike,” he said, stepping forward. “Spike, I need you to come with me.”  
  
“Wesley.”  
  
“Yes, my name is Wesley. I need you to come with me.”  
  
“Need to find Buffy.”  
  
He nodded again. “I will take you to Buffy, I promise.”  
  
The bartender’s arm was rising.  
  
Spike cocked his head and looked at him as though he saw for the first time. His eyes were alight, his breathing labored, and there was something there that shouldn’t be there. A reason. One of those things that Wesley no longer had.  
  
“You’ll take me to Buffy.”  
  
“Yes. I will take you to Buffy.” He tried to wave down the bartender, but he didn’t think the man was paying attention. Or maybe he just didn’t care—either seemed likely, particularly given their association with Wolfram and Hart. “We must leave now.”  
  
Spike nodded and slid off the stool and onto his feet. “Yeah. Must leave. Gotta get to Buffy.”  
  
“We’re going now,” Wesley said. He shrugged off his coat and placed it around the shoulders of the former vampire. “Come on. I have to take you home.”  
  
There was a pause, then Spike went rigid. “No!” he snarled. “Buffy.”  
  
“I have to take you home first,” Wesley replied calmly. “I have to help you.”  
  
But Spike was shaking his head, struggling now, attempting to pull away. “No. No! I want to—”  
  
“Let me help you, Spike. Let me help you and I will take you to Buffy. You must let me help you first.” Wesley pressed a hand to the former vampire’s forehead, partially theatre, partially curiosity. Good lord, he had so many questions—questions he had long accepted would never be relevant, never mind answered. “You’re not well. Let me help you.”  
  
It was a miracle that they got out of the pub without that bloody gun going off. Wesley guided Spike to his car in a hurry, settled him in the passenger seat, then dug his phone out of his front pocket.  
  
If he were going to do this, he would need help. And lots of it.  
  
And after a few endless rings, help decided to answer.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Fred. Fred, it’s Wesley.” He tossed a glance at the window. Spike was seated calmly, staring ahead, haunted. “I need a favor.”


	2. Just One Wish

He awoke warm. Warm and comfortable, swimming in a sea of blankets and pillows serving as life rafts. His stomach growled, his vision was blurry, and he had no idea where he was. But it didn’t matter, somehow. Warmth was better than nothing, and nothing was all he’d had for what felt like forever.  
  
It took a few minutes, but Spike’s weary muscles finally listened to what he was telling them to do and helped him sit up. He winced at the movement but refused to give in. The room was small and unfamiliar, its scent lost on his dull senses. Through the span of his admittedly long life, Spike was more than accustomed to waking up in strange places. Hell, the sixties was nothing more than a blur, more or less, as he’d drunk and injected everything he could get his hands on. And true, it took a lot to get vamps blitzed out of their bloody gourds, but the effects were a thousand times more potent.  
  
But Spike hadn’t been keen on that scene for damn near forty years now and didn’t fancy waking up in a strange apartment. Especially considering he felt about as strong as a wet noodle.  
  
He prodded at his memory, but the space was hazy and dark. Whatever had happened had been a right trip, though, judging by the ache that stretched his back and shoulders. Patches of skin across chest and arms looked like it had been sliced open—not exactly unusual, but not all that encouraging, either.

Then something flickered in the black space of his mind. A spark. A spark that exploded into a burning blaze of bloody glory as fire stretched the length of him and the cavern collapsed. She let go of his hand. She. Buffy. Buffy, oh god, where was Buffy? Sunnydale was gone, he remembered that much. He had watched the world come tumbling down.

Had she gotten out? Was she all right?  
  
Something terrible seized his lungs, and Spike hunched over, overtaken by a coughing fit. The noise was loud but vacant, bouncing off the walls of whoever’s flat he was in. He had to find out where he was and why he was here. If Buffy had survived—find her if she had. Hold her to him and never let go.  
  
The door to the room suddenly squeaked open and a cute brunette popped her head in. “Oh! Look, you’re awake!” she said cheerily. “Wes! Wes, he’s awake!”  
  
Wes? Who in the bloody blazes was Wes?  
  
 _“Spike, listen to me.”_  
  
He drew in a deep breath and shook his head, forcing his weight onto his somehow weak and strained arms so he could prop himself properly against the headboard. The girl was gone, now, and there were voices in the outer hall. Hers and a bloke he didn’t recognize but did.  
  
 _“Spike, listen to me. I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.”_  
  
“Spike?” A man entered the room, a man who looked even deader than Spike felt.  
  
 _“I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I used to be Buffy’s Watcher.”_  
  
“Spike,” the man said again, edging forward. The gent’s voice sounded like the one in his head, at least, which meant he might know something about the Slayer. About anything that had happened after the world had gone up. “Spike? How are you feeling?”  
  
Bloody loaded question if he ever heard one.  
  
When he opened his mouth to speak, he was astonished at how raw his voice sounded, like dead leaves crunching under a heavy boot. “Like someone kicked all my stuffing out.”  
  
“Yes, I would imagine. Do you remember at all what happened last night?”  
  
“I’m guessin’ I didn’t win the Publisher’s Clearin’ House.” Spike drew in a deep breath and winced at the pain that along with it. “How long has it been? How long have I been dead?”  
  
“A few months, really. Not long.”  
  
That surprised him. Genuinely surprised him. Only a few months. His eyes fluttered shut.  
  
“And Buffy? Where’s she? I need to—”  
  
“Find her, yes. You said as much last night.”  
  
“Did I?”  
  
The brunette from before popped back through the door, offering a cheery nod. “Repeatedly, from what he tells me,” she said, then waved. “Hi. I’m Fred.”  
  
He nodded. “Spike.”  
  
“Wes told me, among other things.” She smiled and took a few steps forward, sliding her hands into the front pockets of her labcoat. “We think you might have caught a cosmic fever or something in traveling between dimensions. It’s not that uncommon with, well, people who come back from the dead.”  
  
“That why I feel like this?”  
  
“That and the fact that your body’s probably going through shock at suddenly being corporeal again. That plus the heartbeat.” She shrugged and offered a nervous smile that looked natural on her. In knowing her for exactly two minutes, he could tell immediately that this was a girl that could find the good in a nuclear holocaust. “I’m going to need a sample of blood to examine back at the lab and pinpoint exactly what sort of antidote we’re looking for. Wouldn’t want you to die, being alive all of a sudden.”  
  
A smile tugged at his lips. “No, pet,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t want that.” Then he turned to Wesley again, the room still spinning. “How’s it that I’ve got a heartbeat?”  
  
“I believe that in saving the world, you fulfilled a prophecy that I thought was meant for Angel,” he said in a carefully neutral tone.  
  
And then recognition hit, blind and from nowhere. He knew why the man was so familiar. He’d sene him before, the night that freighter had brought him home, worn and broken and newly stuffed with soul. This bloke had been at the harbor, checking out boats for whatever reason. It was quick—a flash in the head—and there had been no reason why Spike should remember it, except apparently there was. A reason called Angel.

Bloody figured. All roads led to the towering forehead.  
  
“Prophecy?” he managed to ask.  
  
“The vampire with a soul that plays a pivotal role in the apocalypse will have his humanity restored. I thought it would be a little sooner, granted, but…” Wesley shrugged. “We’re lucky we found you.”

“Human.” Was this what _human_ felt like? Spike glanced down at his chest, which of course did nothing. The sensation there was odd, almost painful, but he couldn’t bloody well see his heart beating. All that happened beneath the skin.

_Vampire with a soul plays a pivotal role in the apocalypse._ He supposed burning to ash in service of saving the world would qualify.  
  
 _Buffy._  
  
“Buffy. I need to—”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
“You keep sayin’ that. Where is she? Did she… She made it, right?”  
  
Fred inched forward. “She went to Italy after the town went kablooey,” she said. “We’re going to find her for you. But first, some tests? We don’t want to get you all revved to see Buffy and then…well, _kablooey._ ”  
  
He reckoned that made sense, even if it went against every sodding impulse. So he was a mite more fragile than he had been before, what the hell did that matter, so long as he got to see her again. See that she was warm and alive and safe, living as she’d never had the chance to before.

But supposing she’d meant it, the thing she’d said before she’d done what he’d told her to do and run for it… God, he couldn’t hope, could he?

Supposing she meant it, he owed it to her to make sure his return to the living was more than a bit of flash and farewell.

“Right. I’ll do whatever I need. Just get me to her.”  
  
“Right.” Wesley nodded to the girl. “Fred will be back in a minute to take a sample of your blood. Now, I need to know what, if anything, you remember of last night.”  
  
“Last night?”  
  
“You don’t remember?” Wesley pursed his lips and sighed. “You were in quite a state. The marks on your arms? The cuts on your chest? You did all those last night…wanting to know if you were real. It’s how I found you, actually. You caused quite a commotion at a pub owned by a client of Wolfram and Hart—”  
  
“Wolfram and Hart?” Spike sat up straighter. “Know that name. Bunch of evil lawyer gits, right?”  
  
Wesley huffed up a little at that. “Not anymore. Just a few days before Sunnydale was destroyed, Angel struck a deal with the Senior Partners and now we head the Los Angeles division.”  
  
Spike’s eyes went wide. “Hold on, his King Forehead is headin’ up hell on earth?”

Fred snickered, then blushed when he arched an eyebrow at her. “Well,” she said, “he does have a very big forehead.”

“Yeah, and a pesky history of tryin’ to end this miserable world,” Spike said, shifting his attention back to Wesley. “That’s the bloke you trust with the might of Wolfram and bloody Hart? Bloody hell, no wonder I’m the one who earned the heartbeat. Seems merry Peaches decided the white hat look didn’t suit his coloring.”

At that, both Wesley and Fred glanced down, looking a bit discomfited. And he understood. More than he cared to.

“Right, lemme guess,” he said slowly. “You took the fruit off the Tree of Good and Evil ‘cause some some skimpy spokesperson who looked good in a short skirt assured you that you could keep keep on fightin’ the good fight, never mind the fact that they’re already nose-deep in a deal with the devil.” He paused, waited for a reaction but got none, beyond more silence. “And Angel, bein’ the overbearin’ ponce that he is, figured he could walk into the very heart of temptation without battin’ an’ eye.” Spike shook his head, barked out a short laugh that came out more as a cough. “You don’t mess with power like Wolfram and Hart, mate. I wouldn’t’ve touched it even when I was evil. Don’t see how he’s supposed to be helpin’ protect people if he’s in the heart of the thing hurtin’ them in the first place.”  
  
Another still beat settled through the room. “We were going to try to turn the place around,” Wesley said softly.  
  
Spike arched an eyebrow. “You think they woulda let you in if they thought that was even possible?”  
  
“Of course not. Which is why finding you was so fortunate.” Wesley released a deep breath and glanced up again. “We’re going to get you well, Spike. And then we’re leaving to find Buffy. I’d imagine Rupert couldn’t be too far off from where she is. We will find her.”  
  
“And then what? She part of your plan to help Angel see the light?” The words were out before they had a chance to hit home, but once they did, he saw clearly the path forward. Why, exactly, this bloke would be so keen to reunite him with the woman he loved. Buffy might just be the only person his wanker of a grandsire would listen to. Or, even worse, the best weapon in a fight to bring down Wolfram and Hart. Well, bugger that. “You can’t drag her back here, mate. She just got her normal life. She doesn’t need to be in the thick of another—”  
  
“Spike.”  
  
“Might not have my old strength anymore but I’ll rip you limb from sodding limb if you drag her into this right spectacle you’ve made.”  
  
Wesley held up a hand. “I have no intention of declaring war on Wolfram and Hart. It’s a battle we cannot win. The evil that powers the firm is evil that resides within mankind, or so we have learned. The only way to destroy it would be to destroy humankind. Suffice to say, that is not an option we are eager to pursue.”  
  
“Oh.” Slowly, he began calm. “Oh.”  
  
“I’m leaving because I want to survive. Staying here is killing me. It’s killing us all.” He shook his head. “I won’t presume to think I can get through to Angel. I believe he is too preoccupied with whatever good he thinks he is doing, far being from finding a cure for Cordelia. But I have no intention of allowing it to destroy me in the process. Or Lorne or Gunn, if I can help it.” Another sigh rode off his lips. “We are leaving here once you are well enough. We are getting away.” He paused once more, conviction set in his eyes. “And regardless of what she says, I’m taking Fred with us.”  
  
Again, Spike perked an eyebrow. “That right?”  
  
“She’ll thank me for it later. As for what she says now…I really do not care.” He started to say something else, but closed his mouth as Fred bustled back into the room, all sunshine and smiles despite the intimidating needle she wielded.

Spike obliged her without complaint, forfeited his arm while studying the bloke who had saved his life. The bloke whose entire face softened whenever he looked at the brunette, and he understood. The look he wore was one Spike couldn’t help but feel on a level close to home. That sort of desperate longing that had once made it hard to breathe, even if breathing wasn’t something he’d needed to do at the time.

But he did now. The breaths heaving from his chest were not a luxury. They were needed. As was food, water, shelter, income, and all the other things he had taken for granted for the past century.  
  
It would hit him soon. The realization of what had happened. Right now it was all academic. Something he knew but didn’t quite grasp. Dodging sunlight and holy relics was behind him. The world at his feet new and untried, despite the fact that he’d lived here for more than a sodding century.

There was a chance now that hadn’t been there before. A chance at life—a real, proper go. All the things he’d ever wanted, or had ever since knowing her. Knowing the Slayer.  
  
 _Buffy._  
  
Spike shook his head and flinched as Fred withdrew his blood. It wouldn’t be long, he told himself. It couldn’t be too long. He would find her. He had to.  
  
Whether or not she wanted to be found, by him especially, was a different matter altogether.

*~*~*

He was looking into the mirror, and his reflection looked back.  
  
It was autumn, he’d learned. Been told only a few months had passed since Sunnydale collapsed but it still felt wrong that so little time when so much had changed. When the space between the cavern of the Hellmouth and right now felt damn well infinite. Yet here he was, standing on two feet, staring at a reflection that shouldn’t exist, looking at scars that wouldn’t heal overnight and listening to that blasted sound echoing from somewhere deep inside him. That bloody proof of life.  
  
His heartbeat was a quiet torment—how something could be inaudible to others yet piercing to him, that it could move with such fury he wondered how it did not leap out of his chest. It beat at him, a prisoner of war. A thing that had been dead, should have been dead but had started again.  
  
Heartbeat. A reflection. A soul.  
  
He had died only to live and now stood studying hands that shouldn’t exist, examining skin that, just yesterday, had been burned off at the bottom of Hell. His head pounded. His heart bellowed. It was so loud. Life was so loud. He hadn’t vamp hearing, but he was going deaf. His entire body was screaming with life.  
  
And that was all he could take. Spike tore his eyes away from the broken man staring at him. He didn’t make it to the bed. His legs gave way within two steps and then he was on his knees.  
  
Alive. He was alive. And he didn’t know what came next.

He had a reflection, though.

That was something.


	3. In Sin and Error Pining

Fred was not above asking for help, especially when someone needed it. No matter who that someone was. And though the situation with Spike was not so hopeless that she thought he couldn’t manage on his own, she worried about him. Two weeks had already passed and little to no improvement could be seen. His scars were healing, yes, and he was more than willing to suffer through whatever test she thought was appropriate. His fever would fluctuate, and while she was coming closer to finding an antidote, she was worried that the illness would send him into a coma before any serious progress could be made.

Healing him was only the first step—the ones that came next could well be just as difficult.  
  
So she was turning to the voice of reason. Through thick and thin, Angel had been there for her. Rescued her from her cave and brought her from hell and to the real world again. And true, while he was a little power hungry nowadays, he was hardly the despot Wesley seemed to think he was.  
  
There was so much going on right now—so much to consider. Every day came with new theories, new to-do lists, new methods by which they might light out of Dodge without attracting too much attention, and of course, new suggestions on what a rehabilitated vampire-turned-human might need. What could be done to make the transformation more bearable for him, if anything.

Fred had her own opinion, but she’d kept it to herself. Until, well, now. Spike needed family.

And the only family available to him was Angel.  
  
The entire sire-relationship thing was something that Fred had never really been given a chance to explore. She knew that Darla had made Angel, who had made Drusilla, and that Drusilla had made Spike. Charles had sat her down to explain the entire thing, which was why—she reasoned—her head still spun whenever the family tree was mentioned. For if Darla was Angel’s mother, and Angel was Drusilla’s father, and Drusilla was Spike’s mother…well, the men of that clan had an Oedipus complex that would give Freud a headache. And then, to top it all off, both had gone and fallen in love with the same Slayer. Only Spike had done the falling-in-love thing when he was without a soul which kinda blew her freaking head. 

The only vampire Fred had known both souled and soulless was Angel, thanks to last year’s insanity. And soulless Angel—Angelus—was not a guy who would give up evil for love. That anyone could… Well, it made her question things she’d never questioned. 

Fred stopped at the laboratory before calling Angel’s receptionist to confirm her appointment and took a few minutes to instruct Knox on what compounds he should mix with Spike’s new cocktail of medications. Wolfram and Hart’s amenities were, if nothing else, extremely useful, and gave her plenty to play with in the search of the perfect chemical compound for a recently Shanshued vampire. That Wolfram and Hart also had a ton of experience dealing with inter-dimensional illnesses was a big check in the plus column. Here, at least, she using evil resources for good. She was pretty certain.  
  
Fred offered a timid wave and grinned as she stepped into Angel’s office. The small part of her that had yet to completely let go of her schoolgirl crush fluttered a bit when he smiled back. Just a bit. More like the memory of an old feeling rather than the feeling itself. And, as often happened when she was in Angel’s presence, she felt the surge of those concerns Wesley had taken to stoking begin to wane.

Deep down, he was still Angel. He was still their boss. Angel Investigations had merely upgraded.  
  
“Fred,” he greeted warmly. “What can I do for you?”  
  
“Well, there’s a bit of a sticky wicket.” She blushed at the look he gave her and glanced down. “You might have noticed that Wesley and I have been taking a lot of personal days. And—”  
  
Angel held up a hand. “Fred, whatever you and Wes do… You know how I feel about you two. And I know you’ve been getting work done. This is us, right? Never stopped us before.”  
  
She frowned. “We’re not… Wesley and I, we’re not… It’s not like that. I’m helping him with something. Prophecy-related. You see…” A deep breath rolled off her shoulders. “You remember a couple weeks back when we got that call about the disturbance down at the bar owned by the Ry’nock clan?”  
  
Angel sat back, perplexed. “Yes…”  
  
Fred licked her lips. Here came the hard part. Telling Angel that a vampire he hated had Shanshued in his place. A vampire that coincidentally earned his soul for the woman Angel had come to Los Angeles to escape. Was there anything _not_ complicated about this mess? “I…I really don’t know how to say this…”  
  
“Well, if it’s a prophecy and Wes is working on it…” Angel’s eyes darkened, as though he were remembering something he would rather forget. “If Wes is working on a prophecy, I’d think—”  
  
“Angel. It’s Spike.” There. That wasn’t so hard. “He’s back, soul included. Soul, heartbeat, and he has a pulse? And a reflection, an appetite for solid foods, a functioning bladder, and the ability to take daytime strolls through the park? He’s—”  
  
“He’s human.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Spike Shanshued.”  
  
Fred smiled nervously and nodded. Angel’s face was blank—more so than usual. “Again, yeah. And he’s sick. Really, really sick. I have my lab looking at samples of saliva and skin tissue to work out a treatment plan. Really, it shouldn’t take too much longer. He just has a flu or something from inter-dimensional travel. And a hundred-plus dead body suddenly coming full circle with a heartbeat? That tends to sick the big whammy on you. He was kinda out of it for the first two days or so. Cut himself up pretty bad. Wesley thinks he would have carved his heart out if he’d been left to his own devices.”  
  
Angel was staring at a point on the wall behind her. He gave no motion to the fact that he had heard any of what she’d said.  
  
“The point is,” Fred continued, daring to relax a little, “Wesley wants to get him out of the country as soon as he’s able to travel. Forge some paperwork and the rest… He’s going to ask Spike where he kept his—if he did before he, you know, got chipped up and juiced with a soul. Chances are he just ate whoever…but that’s beside the point.” Deep breath. “I’m here because Spike needs someone. He’s going through something really, really hard right now. Something no vampire has ever gone through before. And he needs…well, he’s been asking for… But we can’t really get her right now. He needs family.”  
  
Something snapped at that. Angel blinked and glared at her in a way that could freeze and thaw hell in the same blow. “Spike has been back for more than two weeks,” he began, “and _this_ is the first I’m hearing about it?”  
  
Fred bit her lip. “I…Wesley thought it’d be better if—”  
  
 _“Wesley_ thought.” A small, incredulous chuckle at that. “Oh, I see. _Wesley_ thought. Wesley’s just full of bright ideas, isn’t he? Just full of them. Last year it was replace me with Angelus while Cordelia and the Beast danced around in permanent midnight. Year before, he takes Connor, gives him to Holtz, and my son grows up hating me in some hell dimension. And now this?” He slammed his fists against his desk and shot to his feet. _“This?_ Wesley’s been—”  
  
“Taking care of someone who _needs_ someone right now,” she barked. “And what are you talking about? Who’s Connor? What son? You lost me.”  
  
At that, Angel seemed to catch himself. He shook his head, sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Fred—”  
  
“The hell it doesn’t! Spike’s sick! I came to you because you’re—”  
  
“Spike’s sick. Spike’s sick.” Now he was glaring again. “What do you expect me to do about it, hmmm? Take his temperature? Feed him some Campbell’s? He’s _human._ Not a vampire. Any connection that we had—any _family_ ties that we had—is gone. I can’t do anything. All right?”  
  
“Angel, he needs—”  
  
“What do you expect me to do?”  
  
Fred stammered, stupefied. “Be civil was at the top of the list. I thought that since you know Spike better than anyone and since you _are_ family, whatever technicalities you want to argue, you might have it in yourself to…you know…be family.”  
  
“And do what, exactly?”  
  
“Well…I don’t know. I guess, after he’s better, help us get out of the country so we can find Buffy? That being a good place to—”  
  
The temperature in the room dropped without warning.  
  
“You want me…” Angel held up a hand as though trying to rationalize her request. “To help my idiot offspring who has just stolen my Shanshu prophecy to find the woman _I_ was supposed to spend my life with after I’d completed the prophecy and just…accept that?”  
  
Fred frowned. “Since when has it been about Buffy?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Well, I know she was your—”  
  
“Fred—”  
  
“—girlfriend, but Spike loves her, and he’s sacrificed so much for her. And now he has things to offer and he’s come back from god-knows-where. He’s sick and miserable and cutting himself and god, how can you not want to help him get to Buffy?”  
  
“It’s simple. Really. Buffy deserves better.”  
  
“Than a man that risked and sacrificed _everything_ to—” Fred cut herself off abruptly, eyes widening as she took in Angel’s face. The anger there. The pain. And she knew, likely as well as he did, that Buffy had little to do with his objections now. She might have been the goal at the start but time changed everything, even what the heart wanted. For Angel, she suspected it was the image of Buffy, the promise of what could be that had driven him. The woman he actually loved was going through a medical crisis of her own, and that had him all turned around.  
  
Everything had changed so fast. Their lives, their relationships—the thing Angel had been working toward for so long seemed far out of reach. And now it was gone.  
  
“Angel,” she began again, calmer, “it’s the right thing to do. We need to help Spike. He’s sick and he needs her. He’s cutting himself. He just got mojoed back from the great beyond after making himself a martyr for her. We owe the world to him…literally.”  
  
“And how many people owe the world to us?”  
  
“That has never been the point and you know it. He needs help. He needs family.”  
  
“I’m not going to—”  
  
“Angel, what if it was Cordelia?”  
  
His eyes softened. Cordelia.  
  
There it was.

*~*~*

  
“Good news,” Wesley said as he entered the bedroom, snapping his cell phone closed. “That was Fred. She believes she has finally concocted the right medical cocktail to neutralize the fever.”  
  
Spike smiled wryly. “’Bout bloody time.”  
  
“After you’re better,” Wesley continued, “we will start looking at travel options.”  
  
“Thought you knew where she was.”  
  
There was no questioning the _she_ in that statement.  
  
“We do. But that does not mean we can simply hop a plane and have that be that. You’re human now. We would need passports, identification, the proper papers, money, among other things.”  
  
Spike nodded. “And here I thought bein’ tapped into the greatest evil on the planet would at least have its benefits.”  
  
“We are not going to Wolfram and Hart for help.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You know perfectly well why not. I believe it was you who lectured me on the matter.”  
  
A sigh rolled off his shoulders as he rolled his head back. “Bloody wanker picks the absolute worst times to listen to me.”  
  
Wesley narrowed his eyes. “Did you or did you not—”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I did.” Spike fidgeted uncomfortably. “Don’t have to rub it in. But if Granddaddy Forehead is really runnin’ the show like you said, wager we could use some of the perks, yeah?”  
  
“Angel cannot know,” Wesley said. “I’ve read enough about the rivalry between you two to know that he would not react favorably at the notion that you have essentially robbed him of any lasting chance of retaining humanity. For years, he worked solely to fulfill the Shanshu prophecy. And now—”  
  
“Now he’s runnin’ Evil Incorporated. Sounds to me like he’d already given up.”  
  
“Now—”  
  
“And if he hadn’t, there’d be no reason why you’re hankerin’ to get overseas as much as I am.” Spike paused. “And why you’re keen on takin’ Fred with you. Gettin’ her as far away from dear ole daddy as possible.”  
  
Wesley shook his head. “I’m not afraid of Angel,” he said. “There has been too much there for me to ever really fear him. Perhaps once when I was younger and…less wise to the ways of things. I wasn’t even too terribly afraid of Angelus when we met. You cannot fear Angelus and expect to live.”  
  
There was a snort at that. “Oh right. You and the mystics brought out the wanker recently, didn’t you?”  
  
“We thought it was for the best.”  
  
“Yeah, and I’m Tina bloody Turner.” Spike barked another laugh. “You don’t release the one vamp in history that made the biggest uglies this world has ever seen go weak in the knees and call it _for the best_. There’s always another option.”  
  
Wesley arched an eyebrow. “Did I detect a smidgeon of jealousy in that, or is it the fever talking?”  
  
“Me? Jealous of Angel?” Another snicker. “I thought you said you’d _read_ our history. There’s never been anythin’ but jealousy between us.”  
  
“And you wonder why letting him know of the Shanshu prophecy is a bad idea.”  
  
“Don’t rightly care if he’s hurtin’, mate. I just wanna get to my girl.”  
  
“She’ll be there, Spike. Time has moved differently for us.” Wesley shook his head. “I don’t presume to know how inter-dimensional travel affects one’s psyche, but I suspect that it seems forever has passed. It hasn’t. It’s barely been any time at all. Buffy will be there.”  
  
There was a cool confidence in the man’s tone that unnerved him. Spike knew the universe too well to gamble on absolutes. She would be there, yes, but would she want him?  
  
 _“I love you.”  
  
“No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.”_  
  
Words, words, words.  
  
Wesley turned to his dresser and started to rummage. “I’m leaving because I am not strong enough to fight Wolfram and Hart,” he said a moment later. “I wasn’t when Angel was with us, and I certainly can’t hope to go against him now. I believe that he believes working there is the right thing…that he’s focused his priorities _on_ the right thing. But you cannot make a deal with the devil without giving something up. It will catch up with me one day, cost me my soul, as it cost Lilah hers. I can’t erase my shadows, Spike, but for a while, I can stand on top of them. Get the better of them long enough to fight like hell before it’s over.” He slowly turned to face him. “And for a while, I can try to do what’s right. I can get you out of the country and help you get to what you have earned. I can try to save Fred, too. But I cannot save myself. It is too late for me.”

Spike just watched him. They all had their demons to bear, and they all had their ways of dealing with those demons. Seemed Wesley had chosen his.

“Bummer,” he said at last.  
  
“Yes,” Wesley agreed wryly. “It is, isn’t it?”  
  
Before Spike could muddle together an appropriate reply, a knock sounded at the door. Wesley excused himself wordlessly, only to return with Fred at the heel.  
  
“Dr. Burkle here to cure the un-undead,” she chirped. She looked professional, lab coat still on her shoulders, a briefcase at her side. “I have a delivery.”  
  
Spike sat up and nodded shortly. “Right. Do I drink it or you gonna shoot it up my arm or what?”  
  
The sun in Fred’s eyes dimmed a bit, but she nodded. “It’s a shot. I need your left arm, please. Are you allergic to anyth—” She cut herself off when she caught his look. “Oh, right. Well, I brought a load of other antibiotics in case you have a violent reaction to the medication.”  
  
Spike arched an eyebrow. “Define _violent reaction,_ pet.”  
  
“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that,” she replied with a dismissive wave. “Here. Give me your arm.”  
  
The ordeal lasted only seconds. She swathed his skin in alcohol and delivered the injection with all the means of a professional. Spike was almost surprised when the shot stung. He had been such a pansy to pain as a human—not something he was looking forward to rehashing. And while Fred very obviously saw his wince, she kindly didn’t mention it.  
  
The medication was already working as she bandaged him up. Then she handed him a lollipop and scribbled a prescription onto a legal pad.  
  
“You’ll want to take this two times a day for about a month,” she said. “I gave you enough to get you through two weeks. Take this to a pharmacist in Rome when you get there. Some of the stuff is black-markety, but I wouldn’t worry too much.”  
  
Spike fought off a grin, studying his lollipop. “You are too much,” he said, smiling fully when she blushed.  
  
“Oh,” she said, waving again. “Don’t mention it. And you can have the pharmacist put that into pill form. The injection’s only necessary for the first dosage. Gets your body fully acquainted with the medication. Everything else”—she flipped her briefcase open and tossed him a small container full of rattling pills—“is right here.”  
  
Wesley stepped forward at that. “Ummm, Fred,” he said softly. “I couldn’t help but notice you said… _when_ he gets to Rome. I didn’t realize we had finalized any arrangements.”  
  
“We have,” she said, reaching into her briefcase again. “I know what you’re going to say, but I spoke with Angel today.”  
  
Both men froze and stared at her.  
  
“He knows?” Wesley’s voice was small and dangerous.  
  
“He knows.”  
  
Spike rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell…”  
  
Wesley was not nearly as passive. “Fred! I thought—”  
  
“I know, I know. And you were right…at first.” Fred licked her lips, pulled something out of her briefcase and handed it to the former Watcher. “I double-checked everything just to be on the safe side. It’s legitimate. All of it. The passports, the papers, the ID. And he’s forwarded us two hundred thousand dollars to make sure there are no medical emergencies.”  
  
Spike blinked, shook his head. “Say again? Angel is…”  
  
She nodded and smiled softly. “He’s helping.”  
  
“And he knows—”  
  
“The prophecy’s been taken? Yeah, he knows.”  
  
Well, how about that. “I’ll be damned.”  
  
“Not today, mister. I just dosed you up on the most expensive and probably most illegal medication you can get in California.”  
  
He smiled in appreciation and hope lit him from inside.  
  
 _Buffy._  
  
It was really happening. He was going to Buffy.  
  
“I still don’t understand, though,” Spike said slowly. “Why—”  
  
Wesley moved at that, finally tearing his eyes from the piece of paper that Fred had handed him. “Here,” he said. “I believe that sums it up.”  
  
Spike looked down.

>   
>  _Spike,  
>   
>  Take care of her. You know what happens if you don’t._

  
That much was typed on a professional legal sheet. Cold and unfeeling, and it wasn’t what caught his eye or took his breath away.  
  
That lay at the bottom in very familiar penmanship.

>   
>  _Because of Cordelia.  
>   
>  \- Angel._

  
Perhaps after a century and a quarter, he and the overbearing ponce finally understood each other.  
  
Perhaps.


	4. Where the Lovelight Gleams

He’d been human for a few weeks now but Spike couldn’t help but flinch under the sun. He tried to cover it, of course. Matter of pride, even if he knew neither Fred nor Wesley would remark on it. Would likely become easier with time, but time was no longer something he had in spades. And being that he’d never seen Rome in the sunlight, he was keen to skip ahead so he could enjoy old sights made new again.  
  
“Oh! Look!” Fred was again buried in the literature she’d snagged from the airport. The little bird was right entertaining, standing outside the bloody Colosseum and studying a brochure instead. “There’s a vampire tour!”  
  
Spike and Wesley traded a long look.  
  
She frowned. “What?”  
  
“Think you need to brush up on vamps?” Spike said, grinning. “Here I thought you’d be an expert by now.”  
  
“What? I thought it’d be entertaining.”  
  
“Either we’ll be fed a load of rot or be the entrée for the laziest load of bloodsuckers in the country.” Spike snickered and rolled his eyes. “How some blokes order takeout.”  
  
Fred made a face and folded the brochure before sticking it in her handbag. “Well, that was my idea. What are the must-see stops?”  
  
“We’re not on vacation, Fred,” Wesley said.  
  
“You two lovebirds are on your own after I find the Slayer,” Spike agreed. “I’m sure there’s loads better to do than shadow a has-been Big Bad.”  
  
“Like finding Giles and beginning to form a front against Wolfram and Hart, perchance?” Wesley asked.

“Oh, someone’s tune has changed. Ocean between them and us have you feelin’ big in your britches?”

At that, Wesley looked mildly chagrinned. “I maintain what I said before. Attempting to eradicate Wolfram and Hart is a fool’s errand…but not fighting back makes us complicit, doesn’t it? We might not be able to beat them but we can certainly make things difficult.” He offered a shrug. “Could be that finding certain prophecies are more than words on a page have helped me find my purpose again. Every man needs one, after all.”

Spike had nothing to say to that, just offered a grin and nodded. As long as he didn’t try to drag the Slayer into his fight, he’d support whatever the man wanted to undertake. He owed him, after all.

And who the hell was he kidding? There was no fight he could hope to keep Buffy out of. Bugger, he wouldn’t want to. The fight was what she was made for.

“Perhaps Willow could be of some assistance,” Wesley went on. “She mentioned the last time we spoke of being tapped into powerful magicks.”  
  
“Deep enough to destroy the world? Yeah—been there, done that. Wolfram and Hart’d chew her up without botherin’ to spit her out again. You have any conceivable idea just how much mojo Red can handle?” Spike offered a dry chuckle. “She’s off the hard juice, but that doesn’t mean they’d be beyond a seduction plan.”  
  
“Even with Angel as the CEO?” Fred asked. “I mean, he did help us get here and everything…right?”  
  
Spike and Wesley exchanged a look.  
  
“A-and,” she continued, “Lorne and Charles… They’re still over there. Working there. And what about Cordelia?”  
  
“Do you really think Cordelia would approve of the decisions we have made recently?” Wesley asked.  
  
“Well, her body being the vessel for an evil god bent on world domination using the guise of world peace? I’d say not. But she definitely wouldn’t want us to go after Angel. He’s a champion. He’s a good guy. He’s—”  
  
“A bloody ocean away and still drivin’ me crazy,” Spike grumbled, caressing his brow with a groan. “Look poodle, I know my grandpap means an annoyin’ lot to you. And yeah, I’m grateful that he was able to step off his almighty horse and lend yours truly a hand. And, as much as it chafes me, the big git likely doesn’t realize what he’s doin’.”  
  
“So, instead of trying to talk with him reasonably, we should just organize an army and attack?”  
  
Spike tossed his hands up. “I didn’t say anythin’ about attackin’. That’s yours and Percy’s area. I wash my hands of all of it. Bloke was nice enough to lend us his goods, but that’s it. I’m here for Buffy and then I’m through.”  
  
Fred glanced at Wesley. “And you’re not going back?”  
  
He shot her a pained look. “No,” he replied softly. “I can’t.”  
  
“Can’t?”  
  
“Wolfram and Hart… I don’t presume to know how Gunn feels. Or Lorne. But it was killing me. When I found Spike that first night, it was a way out. And I am out. I’m out.” He lowered his gaze to the ground. “I called you that night because I wanted you out, too. I wanted you away from there where they could not reach you.”  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
“And if I…” Fred suddenly looked nervous, wiping her hands on her jeans. “And if I want to go back?”  
  
Spike cast Wesley a somber look. _Tough goin’ mate._  
  
“You don’t,” Wesley said firmly. “I won’t let you go back.”  
  
Well, bugger. He hadn’t seen that coming.

“What?” Spike asked.  
  
“What?” Fred echoed.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Wesley said, looking down. “But I cannot allow it. Wolfram and Hart would destroy you, Fred. It was destroying me. I got you out, and if I have to chain you in a closet—something I _have_ been known to do—you will not be going back. If you resent me forever, I do not care. At least I will die knowing that I have saved you.”  
  
Fred took a step back, gaping at him. “Wesley—”  
  
“I got you out, Fred.”  
  
“Yes, under the pretense that we were helping someone—”  
  
“We are.” He spoke shortly. “We are helping Spike find Buffy. Afterwards, well, I don’t know…but we cannot go back there. It was killing us.”  
  
“It’s not your decision, Wesley!”  
  
“Oh, but I think it is.”  
  
“I don’t know where you get off telling me—”  
  
He shook his head, raising a hand. “It’s for your own good, Fred.”  
  
She glared at him. “I think you need to spend a little less time worrying about my own good and a little more considering problems that actually involve you. You’re not going to tell me where I’m allowed, Wesley. I’m sorry.”  
  
It was strange watching a scene from his own life unfold with different players. Spike licked his lips as he watched Fred backtrack and turn in the other direction. They had checked into one of the more touristy hotels immediately after the airport, so if she wanted to run, she had her options.

Which she took, bolting into a sea of people and disappearing almost immediately from view. And perhaps it was out of habit, so ingrained that his body couldn’t help but obey, even if it was someone else’s girl he was chasing. Heedless of the fact that he left Wesley standing alone down the way, Spike took after Fred, though he didn’t get very far. Running was one of those things that involved his lungs, which hadn’t been in the business of working in more than a century.  
  
“Bloody hell,” he gasped, hunching over. “Need a smoke.”

“Yeah. That’s definitely what the oxygen shortage is telling you,” said a soft voice. Then Fred was beside him, pushing her way through a couple of tourists, looking somewhat abashed. “Besides, no smokes, remember?” She reached into her knapsack and removed an apple, handing to him with customary perkiness. “Munch on that. Remember our agreement?”  
  
He grumbled but bit into it all the same. “Sodding Nazi.”  
  
“Am not!”  
  
“Least I got you to stop runnin’. Where you think you’re goin’, pet?”  
  
Her eyes softened at that. “Away. Wesley can’t just…waltz into my life and expect everything to work out. I—”  
  
“You know he loves you, right?”  
  
“Yes.” The honest rapidity of her response surprised him, and she giggled. “What? I didn’t know it was a secret. Yes, I know Wesley has feelings for me. And yes, I know that he’s done whatever he’s done out of what he thinks is in my best interest…but he can’t go around choosing my best interest for me.”  
  
“Wolfram and Hart is in nobody’s best interest,” Spike said. “I’ve played the evil game, pet. Won every time that I was pitchin’ for their side. Take it from someone who’s done the switch over—evil’s evil. You can’t get rid of it with a simple facelift.”  
  
“But Angel—”  
  
“Believe it or not, that git doesn’t have all the answers, all right? He’s wrong about this. And Wes’s a smart bloke to get away from it while he can. Before it hurts him anymore…or you.”  
  
“Spike—”  
  
“Evil doesn't change.” The tone of his own voice startled him with conviction, his heart straining to be heard. That was a lesson learned the hard way. A lesson he would never allow himself to forget. Preaching the same to Buffy time and time again—a vampire can change, he had said. The chip was change. Not change enough. Not enough to divide his mind in that fine line between right and wrong. He had shoved her to the floor all the same. The logical side, the human side, hadn’t taken over until it was too late. Until the damage was done.  
  
“I’m not gonna drag you back kickin’ and screamin’,” Spike said, blinking back to the present. “I just had to… One of us has to have a happy endin’, sweets. And since I have a soft spot for people who take me in after I’ve gone loose upstairs, I’d like it to be you two. Just give it some thought.”  
  
He didn’t wait for a reply, rather smiled and took another bite out of his apple before turning to head back for Wesley.  
  
The man was standing at the corner, looking solemn but not surprised. He nodded when he saw Spike and turned to fall into stride beside him.  
  
“She’s going back to the hotel?”  
  
“I’d wager so.”  
  
Wesley nodded again. “I’m taking you to the address Angel gave me,” he said. “After that, I’m going to leave. Go back to the hotel and see if I can talk to Fred. If she doesn’t want anything to do with me…can I trust you to watch out for her?”  
  
Spike smirked. “What happened to chainin’ her in the closet?”  
  
He didn’t answer.  
  
“Mate?”  
  
Still nothing, but Spike decided not to pursue the matter. The haunted look in the other man’s eyes said enough. That and then some.  
  
When Wesley did start to speak, however, his voice was guarded. “I cannot lose her to Wolfram and Hart,” he said. “I’ve gotten her out in time. Did all the right things. It was killing me there. Eventually, it will begin to kill Angel, and Gunn and Lorne. Just gnaw at their insides until there is nothing left. I only made it first because I was closer to death than they were when we took the job.”  
  
Spike perked an eyebrow and took a bite out of his browning apple. “Know the feelin’,” he agreed.  
  
“I’ve lost one to them,” he went on. “I will not let them have her, too.”  
  
“Lost who?”  
  
Wesley blinked. “Pardon?”  
  
“Who’d you lose?”  
  
Wesley’s eyes distanced again. “Lilah,” he breathed, and for one so in love with another woman, Spike was surprised at the wealth of emotion in his voice. “Wolfram and Hart attorney. We…” He looked down as though realizing he was speaking aloud. “She and I…”  
  
“Girlfriend?” Spike ventured. Just a guess.  
  
Wrong guess. The look in Wesley’s eyes grew cold. “Fuck friend.”  
  
The word sounded strange coming off his lips.  
  
Spike stiffened. “Really?”  
  
“She was evil. I was lost. It was wrong.” The words resounded so familiar—too familiar. “I was using her for sex.”  
  
“Wanker.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I was.” Wesley frowned. “I was wrong. But I…I cared for her. I grew to. And even…” He glanced down. “I think I loved her for a while. It just happened. I ended it when I hated myself for using her, but then…I loved her for a while. She wasn’t Fred, but she was important to me, and she cared about me in her own way.”  
  
Spike had the sudden urge to punch the former Watcher over the side of the nearest railing.  
  
 _Fuck friends._  
  
Yeah. That’s what they were, all right.  
  
“And you lost this one?”  
  
Wesley inhaled sharply. “Cordelia killed her. Tried to make us believe Angelus did. It was while she was possessed.”  
  
“Well, that much I wagered.”  
  
“And I had to cut her head off,” he continued numbly. “Lilah. We thought Angelus had had her. And then she showed up after Jasmine was gone. An eternal employee of Wolfram and Hart, tied to them forever. I tried to save her, tried to burn her contract, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t save Lilah.”  
  
There was genuine sorrow in his voice, and that alone had Spike’s temper receding to a low simmer. Even with everything that he had done to deserve what Buffy had lobbed at him that year—even with the forgiveness, the tears, the confessions—part of him that would remain forever scarred because of it.   
  
He didn’t think Wesley would appreciate a vote of confidence that Lilah had indeed loved him. But from what he knew of evil and its heroes, that ever-changing gray area left little room for doubt. Evil didn’t bend over for anyone. If evil cared at all, it cared with everything it had.  
  
After all, he’d been evil and fallen in love with a beacon of light.  
  
“Fred will come ‘round,” he said when he could think of nothing else.  
  
“Yes,” Wesley agreed, bringing them to a stop outside a modest-looking flat. He glanced to the number that rested above the door, then down to the card in his hand. “Let’s just hope it is not too late.”  
  
Spike inhaled and nodded, giving his head a shake. Somehow Wesley had led him here without his realizing it…and just like that, like nothing at all, the moment was upon him. Some time since he’d been mojoed back, Fred had sussed out that, wherever he’d been between the Hellmouth and here, years had passed. Years in dimensions he could not remember. Years in a body that had worn him top to bottom. And he felt that in many ways—felt the time spanning those seconds with her in that cave and right now had stretched into centuries. Still, it had only been months for her. Just months. And somehow, in the between area of all that, here he was. Standing at the walk outside her flat, brought here by a former Watcher.  
  
 _God._  
  
“For what it’s worth,” Wesley said, pocketing the information and crossing his arms. “I wish to remain in touch.”  
  
“Don’t go booking the minister yet,” Spike murmured. “It might end tonight.”  
  
Might. Might. And just like that, his apprehension made a startling comeback. For everything else, the world seemed to dim behind him. Leaving nothing but his body separated from hers by walls that were no longer intangible.  
  
He had lost his vampiric senses, but he did not need them to know Buffy was in there.  
  
Buffy. His Buffy.

 _“I love you.”  
  
“No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.”_  
  
He hadn’t believed it when he’d said it. She’d never been good at lying to him.  
  
Even so, he was so overwhelmed with doubt that it was almost better to not know for certain. Live in that place where the possibility that she did love him, well and truly, was always alive.  
  
But he could not remain on the corner forever. He refused to live his life standing just outside hers.  
  
It was time.


	5. If the Fates Allow

It was much easier to get drunk as a human. Spike discovered this after taking the second sip of whatever he had first yanked out of the minibar. And true, while it was against his better judgment, something inside him wanted to remain sober. So when he wobbled a bit with the unfamiliarity that came with a new body, he placed the alcohol aside and collapsed on the mattress.  
  
 _The look on her face…_  
  
It didn’t matter now, he supposed. He had his answer. And here he was now—reclined on some foreign bed in a hotel he would never see again, miles away from where she was. Just miles.  
  
Not an hour ago, he had been inches.  
  
Spike didn’t know what he had expected. There had been endless possibilities—a thousand plus scenarios he’d entertained. Conversations he’d had with her over and over again in his head, taking his time to perfect exactly what he needed to say. And in the time it had taken for her to come to the door, every one of those conversation starters had flitted through his head, only to abandon it the second her eyes had actually met his.

“Spike,” she had said, her voice wracked with disbelief. True disbelief. Not simply a figure of speech. “Oh…”  
  
He had smiled best he could, muscles clamping with the need to shove everything aside and take her in his arms. But he hadn’t done that, and worse, she hadn’t asked him to.

She hadn’t done much of anything.  
  
There had been no tears, no shouts, no confessions, no half-sobbed lunge into his arms. Nothing. She had stood aside, numbly, and gestured that he should come in. Wesley had followed at the heel, said something that Spike failed to catch, and they were escorted to the main area where Xander and Willow were decorating a Christmas tree.  
  
From there, everything went downhill, so much so that not even watching Xander fall off the chair he’d been standing on could salvage it. Willow had stared at him for endless seconds while the boy ranted that the First had found them, silenced immediately when the redhead all but tackled him into a hug, which had shocked the tar out of him but Spike hadn’t minded. Not a bit.

Not a bit. It was the first hint of contact that had come out of genuine affection rather than duty or treating an interdimensional fever. Willow had hugged him because it was _him_. Not only that, she’d mentioned something about missing him then looked pointedly over his shoulder.  
  
But Buffy hadn’t been watching. She’d been pale and her gaze was distant, and while she answered when he called to her, she hadn’t looked at him, rather closed her eyes once as though willing herself awake from some horrible dream.  
  
Spike had learned a lot of things in the course of that hour. The Bit was off in New York at some fancy boarding school that she had somehow talked Buffy into. He found it more surprising that she wanted to be in boarding school in the first place. Perhaps it was the normalcy, or the teenage need to be away from parental authority figures.  
  
The Scoobies, with all their faults, were about as parental as anyone could ask for. At least when it came to the kiddies.  
  
So Dawn was away—she had even opted to stay in the Big Apple for Christmas. Something about flying overseas for one holiday just didn’t rest well with her. She was there, and Giles was piecing the Watchers Council back together as best he could. That, of course, kept him in London with a healthy selection of the slayers that had been called the day the Hellmouth had closed. Faith and Robin Wood were in Cleveland, making sure the other State-side hellmouth was nice and guarded. Those slayers that had fought the First, graduated from Summers Bootcamp, were considered senior enough to lead the new blood.  
  
This meant the townhouse in Rome was only home to Willow, Xander, and Buffy, Willow having separated with Kennedy before the slayer had taken off for England. Spike didn’t get the sense that anyone missed her much.  
  
All this had been revealed with Spike hardly speaking. He had spent his evening watching Buffy, who hadn’t watched back.  
  
Now he was at the hotel, debating the virtues of holiday drunkenness.  
  
He wondered if Wesley was doing the same, or if the two lovebirds were having a yuletide shag. If he were a vampire, he’d know. But he wasn’t a vampire anymore, and maybe that was the thing of it. Always told Buffy she needed monster in her man. Coming back without the monster on display might have done him in, far as she was concerned. Made him less interesting to her. Or maybe she’d just hadn’t meant it after all, and he’d been a fool for hoping.  
  
Buffy had not said _anything._ Not a thing.  
  
Shock was one thing. Spike understood shock. Even in their world, it wasn’t every day that ex-lovers that had, at last count, been buried by a hellmouth turned up on Christmas Eve on your doorstep. Especially if your doorstep was a good ocean away from where it had been. Shock he’d had expected, but not what he’d gotten. Buffy had just been gone—gone in much the same way she’d been gone after Glory had nabbed the Bit, except present enough that Spike got the message loud and clear. She did not want him. His presence was an unwelcome reminder of all the things that had gone wrong. The life she had once led. And it was too late now.  
  
That much he could understand, much as it hurt.  
  
But not a _word_? Bloke lights up like a sodding Roman candle and the girl he did it for couldn’t even muster a bloody _thanks_?  
  
Spike huffed and rose to his feet. He had not even realized it was Christmas until he saw them decorating the tree, having somehow missed the adverts and decorations at the airport, the lights, and all else. Somehow it was Christmas. His Slayer’s first Christmas not being the Slayer in nearly a decade.  
  
And he, the ex-vamp lover, back from the dead.  
  
Her very own Ghost of Christmas Past.  
  
God, he was such a fool.  
  
Christmas drunkenness was not a good idea. He didn’t know yet if he was suicidal. After all, it wasn’t too long ago that he had been slicing his flesh just to see his blood. He had won the debate on carving his heart out to see if it actually beat, but right now, he didn’t know if he was strong enough to battle the demons of depression or the realities of a world where he didn’t fit. These hands that had known chaos and destruction—now human and unable to stand the bath of so much red.  
  
Human hands that could not touch her when a demon’s could.  
  
 _Love’s bitch through and through._  
  
Spike’s legs wobbled under his weight. Someone was pounding on his door. That enough merited a headache. It was likely Wesley, having given up on Fred and ready to drink his feelings away. Then they could toast to the unreasonableness of women and pretend to be better off without them while getting so sloshed that tomorrow’s hangover would make the Spanish Inquisition seem like a ride at Epcot.  
  
Well, if it meant he could forget for a few hours.  
  
And sod Fred and her apples. Spike was going to have a smoke. What did it matter if he blackened his lungs a little? Not like anyone bloody cared.  
  
The knocking grew more persistent.  
  
“Hold your bloody horses,” he grumbled. “I’m comin’.”  
  
At that, the knocks came harder, swifter.  
  
“I swear, Wes, this better—” Spike jerked the door open and promptly had the air knocked out of him.

Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail and her face was a mess of tears. She had her arms wound around her waist, was dressed in a lightweight sweater, and when her eyes met his, something within them seemed to shatter.  
  
Spike just stared, there was nothing else for it. “Buffy—”  
  
And that was it. That was all it took. She lunged into his arms, then she was there, against him, her heart thundering against his chest—he could feel that, feel how alive she was—as she gripped and sobbed and came apart. Spike was still perhaps a beat too long before he caved and wound around her, pulling her close as he could, the rest of him alighting in song. She was here. She was here, with him, and he would never let her go.  
  
“You’re real,” she sobbed into his skin. “Oh god, you’re real.”  
  
The words stabbed at his heart.  
  
“Slayer…” He pulled back, bringing a hand to her face to wipe at her tears. “Buffy, I—”  
  
He had no time to think or react before her mouth was on his, hot and fiery, dragging kisses full of need off his lips as she pawed at him with greedy hands. Spike clutched at her desperately, brain on overload. He had no thought but to get her inside. Shove the door closed and get her to the place where he lived, where he could finally keep her.  
  
Vampiric senses had nothing on human touch. He tasted her in ways he never thought possible.  
  
“Your warm,” she whispered.  
  
“Got me a heartbeat,” he replied, kissing along her neck.  
  
“And you’re real.” She glanced down, eyes fogging again. “I didn’t want to believe it. My dreams… They’d all felt real before.”  
  
“Dreams?”  
  
“But then I’d wake up and you’d be gone.” She touched his face, gliding her fingers over his skin. “But you’re not. You’re here.” Her eyes fogged with tears again. “You’re really here.”  
  
Spike smiled and kissed her brow. “I’m here, love. Never goin’ anywhere else.”  
  
“God, I thought I’d gone insane.”  
  
“You really missed me that much?”  
  
Buffy’s head shot up, eyes blazing. “You were gone,” she said, “and you weren’t coming back. You weren’t away in Brazil or getting a soul in Africa. You were really gone.”  
  
The breath he breathed was the sort that trembled, for the rest of him couldn’t stop shaking. All he could do was move, guide her back to the bed. Needing to sit, to not be on his legs anymore, since he didn’t entirely trust them to keep him upright. The night was surreal enough, having the Slayer in his arms, having her with him at all. He was beginning to doubt his own existence. Perhaps neither of them were real.  
  
“It didn’t hit me until we were in the Midwest,” she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. “I guess I kept assuming you’d pop up. Have I missed you? I was just beginning to not look for you wherever I go…not thinking you’d be there, but you’d never been gone before, Spike. Even when you left Sunnydale, you were always _somewhere.”_  
  
They were silent for seconds, Spike having no conception of what was expected of him. He just sat there, rocking her slightly, pulling her hair over her shoulders, all the while assuring himself _this_ was real. _Buffy_ was real.  
  
“You were dead,” she whispered into his skin, clutching him tighter. “You were gone.”  
  
“I’m here, baby.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Spike smiled and pulled back, ran a hand softly through her hair. “Were you at all there when Wesley explained this?”  
  
“No. I didn’t want to look at you.”  
  
Right. Like he could forget. “Caught that much.”  
  
“Didn’t want to chance that you weren’t really there. As long as I didn’t look and just heard your voice, you were.”  
  
Spike froze and stared at her. “Oh Buffy…”  
  
She glided her hands up his arms and linked behind his neck before pressing her brow to his. It was strange, but her warmth was almost enhanced. As though he could feel her with everything he was—even the parts of him that were not touching her.  
  
“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” she whispered. “I mean, I’ve heard of Christmas miracles before, and I was so sure you weren’t real. Please…”  
  
Spike’s eyes watered. He pressed a kiss to her lips, and again to her forehead. “You’re not dreamin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, battling his own rising emotion. If he gave in, he’d drown. “Bloody hell, isn’t that my line?”  
  
“Not after these last few months.” Buffy sniffed and pulled back, wiping at her eyes before turning to glare at the ceiling. “If this is a cruel joke, the Powers better man their battle stations, because I will declare war.”  
  
“Not a joke. I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he promised, and brushed his lips against the pulse of her throat, smiling when he felt her tremble against him. Perhaps that was one thing that would never go away—her blood still sang to him, just in ways he had never expected. “Took me too long to get here.”  
  
She nodded slowly, shaking still. “What happened?”  
  
Spike pulled back so that he could see her face. “I don’t know, really,” he replied. “I don’t remember anythin’ before… You were in the cave, holdin’ my hand. Then nothin’. Wes says he found me in some pub.”  
  
She dropped her gaze from his, a smile quirking her lips. “You’re still wearing black tees,” she said.  
  
“Became human, love. Didn’t lose my fashion sense.”  
  
“Didn’t know you had any.”  
  
Spike smiled. There she was. “That’s my girl.”  
  
But she wasn’t paying attention. In just two seconds, the half-smile on her face had dissolved and she was crying again, trailing her fingers across the scars he’d carved into his arms.  
  
In that, he understood her hesitation. After all, if he’d doubted his own existence, what right did he have to ask her to believe it?  
  
“What did you do?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Spike…”  
  
“Made myself bleed,” he replied, tilting her head back so that her eyes were level with his. “Had to see if it was blood. If it was real. If I was real.” He offered a tremulous smile. “I don’t remember much of that first night, but there was blood. Wes says I was cuttin’ myself up and threatenin’ to cut up others. Took mentionin’ you to get me thinkin’ clearly.”  
  
She blinked. “What?”  
  
“Knew I was supposed to be a vampire. Supposed to be dead, and my heart was poundin’ so loud. So hard. God, it hurt.” He frowned, took her hand, and placed it over his chest. “Feel that?” She nodded numbly, caressing him through the thin fabric of his shirt, making him bite back a moan. “Still hurts some. Was hurtin’ earlier when I saw you. I thought you hated me.”  
  
That snapped her out of it. Buffy blinked at him, bewildered. “What?”  
  
“You ran across the world. Couldn’t look at me.”  
  
“I told you why.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. Also know you were given a ticket out. Could play the part of a normal girl and here I am, a wanker back from the dead to muck it all up. I—”  
  
“I love you.” Her eyes glistened, stealing the breath from his lungs and the beat from his heart. And amazingly so, it was she who cried first. He’d always thought he’d be the one who started to blubber if ever she gave him those words for real. But they were real now, and given here, of all places. A hotel room across the globe from where he’d last seen her, Buffy in his arms. No ghosties, no goblins, no vampires or First Evils, or apocalypses. Just them. Him and her. It was perfect.  
  
She loved him.  
  
“You love me?”  
  
Her face began to collapse again. “You didn’t believe me.”

And he knew then, as he hadn’t before, just what a prize idiot wanker he’d been. No matter what had happened in the hours or days prior to the big battle, whatever that snog she’d shared with Angel had meant, love was something Buffy didn’t give out of anything but her whole bloody heart. It wasn’t a tool she used to placate dying men—it was something she owned.  
  
 _“No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.”_  
  
God. He was love’s fool.  
  
“I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to her palm. “Fuck, pet, I’m so sorry.”  
  
”Do you have any idea how big that was for me?”  
  
“Yeah. Just thought it was a bit of you bein’ nice, givin’ the helpless bastard who’s a sucker for you a proper send-off. Thought you were bein’ kind, is all, which is a kind of love but not…” He expelled a deep breath and looked down. “I was off my trolley. Just…too much for me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Remember the night before? You came down the stairs and we…”  
  
A delicate blush lit her cheeks, making every part of him warm.

“Havin’ that, being inside you again, you lettin’ me love you that way again, after everything…” He shook his head. “Too much to ask you to love me on top of that. More than this old sinner deserves.”

“Don’t I get to decide that?”

“Yeah. Just hard to believe it after everything…”

“Well, believe it.” Buffy leveled him with one of her slayer glares—the sort that had never failed to arouse and now was no different. “’Cause if you pull that crap again, I am kicking your ass from one apocalypse to the next. And you think I’ll go easy on you since you’re all human now, but I won’t. Full Buffy is all you get.”

“Full Buffy is all I want,” he whispered heatedly before claiming her lips again. “All I’ve ever wanted. Never loved anyone like I love you. Don’t even know if I _knew_ love before you. Not the way the poets write it.”  
  
“I want this poet,” she murmured into his throat. “Stay. Stay with me, please. Forever.”  
  
 _God yes_. The soft request, so unsure, so hesitant, had the tears he’d been fighting spilling forward at last. This. This was the happy ending he had told Fred to ask the Powers for.  
  
But there was no end. Only a new beginning.  
  
“Forever,” he gasped before she took his mouth again, and then he was kissing the sun, burning from the inside, and living to tell the tale. “For our forever. Here. Wherever you want. I’m yours.”  
  
She grinned against his mouth, slipping a hand between them to caress the ridge of his cock, straining against the denim. “We can get started on forever tomorrow. Right now, I just want you.”

“I can do that.”

“Then do it now.”

Spike let himself fall back, tugging her so she fell with him, and nearly burst at the delighted smile that took her face.

Home at last.


End file.
